This part is true:
And we’re in a hotel room but we’re in separate beds, and I can see her lying down across the canyon between beds that might as well be impossibly deep and wide but I don’t care. I’ll be Evel Kneivel and I’ll ride a bicycle or motorcycle or jet-car over the gap and crash in a huge fireball that could be a raging inferno or could be her crushing blue eyes. Either way she’ll put out the fire, smother my smoldering wreck in her open palms, smoke trickling through her fingers, and I’ll be taken to the hospital and condemned to bed rest, so that I can recover and heal and try to jump the canyon again because this is what I do and this is what I will do until someday or somenight I’ll make the jump and land and will be welcomed with cheers and praise and most importantly an open heart that is really all I ever wanted to begin with.
Uhhh, yeah. What was the name of the wine I was drinking?
11.25.2008
11.17.2008
Electricity
This part isn't true:
I think I want to have my heart broken. That way, I can always be falling in love. I think I’m addicted to that feeling you get when you think about someone you want. That electric rush, all excitement and desire and passion. And you want her, you want her so bad your heart beats irregularly and your blood becomes liquid electricity even though you’re just lying in bed. The brief moment of weightlessness before you fall back to Earth. All that matters is the quiet touch of her glistening lips and fingers drawn across her naked back. Legs interlocked and the faint smell of her hair that you use to tickle her slender neck. Every time you exhale you want to fill the empty space in your lungs with her scent, her breath. There is a hole in your chest and it creates a vacuum that draws in air and energy and if you don’t feel her skin on your skin your body will cave in on itself. The contrast of her dark hair on the white pillow case is most noticeable at night, when the only sound is the rustle of sheets as they rise and fall with each effortless breath she takes. Crisp autumn air pours through the cracked window and you can’t tell if your hairs are standing on end because of the cold or the electricity between bodies. She is on her side and the sheets rest at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography. I think about her clothes on the floor, how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off like turning a page in a book.
Another fragment of the novel. I need to find another word for "electric."
I think I want to have my heart broken. That way, I can always be falling in love. I think I’m addicted to that feeling you get when you think about someone you want. That electric rush, all excitement and desire and passion. And you want her, you want her so bad your heart beats irregularly and your blood becomes liquid electricity even though you’re just lying in bed. The brief moment of weightlessness before you fall back to Earth. All that matters is the quiet touch of her glistening lips and fingers drawn across her naked back. Legs interlocked and the faint smell of her hair that you use to tickle her slender neck. Every time you exhale you want to fill the empty space in your lungs with her scent, her breath. There is a hole in your chest and it creates a vacuum that draws in air and energy and if you don’t feel her skin on your skin your body will cave in on itself. The contrast of her dark hair on the white pillow case is most noticeable at night, when the only sound is the rustle of sheets as they rise and fall with each effortless breath she takes. Crisp autumn air pours through the cracked window and you can’t tell if your hairs are standing on end because of the cold or the electricity between bodies. She is on her side and the sheets rest at the summit of her hips, a single finger whispers lines of latitude up her meridians, following epicurean topography. I think about her clothes on the floor, how her jeans seemed to melt off her body, how her shirt slid over her head in one flawless motion, how her bra came off like turning a page in a book.
Another fragment of the novel. I need to find another word for "electric."
11.13.2008
Hard Boiled (full)
The name’s Smith. I’m a cop. I’m not though. Actually, I’m a lawyer. Not a particularly good one, either. The cop line is just something I say to pick up women. I finish rolling a cigarette and place it between my lips, scanning the dim bar for my next victim. Her eyes catch me through the haze of conversation and cigarette smoke and I know I’ve found what I’m looking for. I weave my way in and out of the mass of people gathered in the room until I’m standing next to her. I light my cigarette, take a drag.
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
***
At work I’m assigned a big case by my boss. I browse through the manilla folder containing all the details. The defendant’s name is Peter Quistgard. He's thirty-four years old. He’s been charged with three counts of murder. I continue to flip through the assorted documents and photos in the folder until I find a picture of the first victim. It's a picture taken before her autopsy. She's naked, spread out on a metal table. Her dark brown hair is splayed around her slender shoulders. Three inch long gash on the right side of her stomach. I know this woman. I killed her.
I notice that she is drinking water.
“Don’t drink?” I ask.
“No. Don’t like the taste,” she replies.
“Oh, that’s good. Keep that liver healthy.”
It takes longer than I expect to get her to come home with me. It would’ve been much easier if I could have drugged her, but she’d have been a little suspicious only drinking water. Whatever the case, she’s in my bedroom now. She’s on her back, her shirt peeled off. I’m on my hands and knees, hovering over her. I lean down and kiss her neck, strands of my hair tickling her face. I kiss my way down her body, stopping at her stomach. She exhales, grabs my shoulders and tries to push me farther down. I nibble at the soft flesh a few inches to the left of her navel. She tries to suppress a giggle. I push away from her, lean back onto my knees. It's very dark in the room but I know she's frowning.
“Why did you stop?”
I don’t say anything.
“Smith?”
“Sorry, I’ll be right back.” I slither off the bed and walk to the kitchen. I retrieve a steak knife from the silverware drawer.
“Hurry up,” she says, the volume of her voice dampened by the distance between bedroom and kitchen.
“I’m coming,” I say. I return to the bedroom.
“Mmm, there you are. What’s next?” Her voice is liquid, oozing sex.
“Next, I’m going to eat your liver.” I close the door behind me and move towards the bed.
***
I finger through more documents until I find a picture of the second victim. She too is on a metal examination table. Unlike the other girl, this one is clothed and face down. Long auburn hair drawn back into a pony tail, hanging limply to one side of her head. Large patch of blood around a hole in her otherwise white t-shirt. I look at the hole in her shirt and know that her left kidney is missing.
I don’t have to drug this one. She is more than willing. In fact, she can’t get back to my place fast enough. I let her in and she immediately goes to the couch, lays down on her back. She grabs my jacket and pulls me close, trying to get me on top of her.
“Roll over,” I tell her. She bites her lower lip and obeys. I slide over her, my right hand clutching the knife I had in my jacket.
“Wait, shouldn’t I take my clothes off?” She asks. I respond by plunging the knife into her side. She screams but I push her face into the couch cushion. I jerk the knife in and out of the wound and soon enough she stops struggling. When I’m sure she’s dead I withdraw the knife and walk to the kitchen. I chop a potato and cut a carrot into slices, then toss them both into a pan of water on the stove. While the water comes to a boil I debate which seasonings to use.
***
Before I get to the picture of the third victim I already know what I’ll find. Blonde hair. Black dress. Green eyes. I know the eyes won’t be in the picture though. I cut them out and boiled them three days ago.
I finish looking through the documents in the folder and toss it down on my desk. In the top right drawer is a plastic bag with two emerald green eyes in it. I take the bag out of the drawer, open it, place one of the moist spheres in my mouth. With my tongue I roll the eye against the roof of my mouth, then push it against the back of my teeth until it ruptures and squeezes through the gaps. The viscous mass slides easily down my throat.
A legal assistant knocks on my door. I put the bag back in the drawer and close it.
“Come in,” I say. The assistant opens the door and steps inside my sparsely furnished office. She is very attractive, dressed in a dark grey sport coat and short skirt that reveals just enough of her slim legs to be both sexy and classy.
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes?”
“They’re ready for you to talk with Mr. Quistgard.”
“I see. Thank you.”
When she leaves I take the remaining eye out of the drawer, toss my head back and pop the eye into my mouth like a piece of candy. I’m still chewing as I walk out of my office towards the elevator.
***
“The name’s Smith. I’m a lawyer,” I say. Peter looks up at me, his hands bound in metal cuffs.
“Yeah?” he says.
“I’m here to take your statement. Do you have anything to say about all this?” I ask.
“I didn’t do it. I swear. I didn’t do it!”
“I know,” I say. “I believe you.”
I don't think I captured the noir theme very well, and it might be a little short. Perhaps it is a bit too similar to the last story as well, but that's what you get and you will like it, love it.
--EDIT--
This is the current revision of the story. Didn't really change anything, just chopped out bits of sentences here and there, to make the whole thing more noir. Or something to that effect. The conclusion is that the natural voice I tend towards is a little too verbose for noir. That's a shame--I strive to be as concise as possible. Hemmingway FTW!
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
***
At work I’m assigned a big case by my boss. I browse through the manilla folder containing all the details. The defendant’s name is Peter Quistgard. He's thirty-four years old. He’s been charged with three counts of murder. I continue to flip through the assorted documents and photos in the folder until I find a picture of the first victim. It's a picture taken before her autopsy. She's naked, spread out on a metal table. Her dark brown hair is splayed around her slender shoulders. Three inch long gash on the right side of her stomach. I know this woman. I killed her.
I notice that she is drinking water.
“Don’t drink?” I ask.
“No. Don’t like the taste,” she replies.
“Oh, that’s good. Keep that liver healthy.”
It takes longer than I expect to get her to come home with me. It would’ve been much easier if I could have drugged her, but she’d have been a little suspicious only drinking water. Whatever the case, she’s in my bedroom now. She’s on her back, her shirt peeled off. I’m on my hands and knees, hovering over her. I lean down and kiss her neck, strands of my hair tickling her face. I kiss my way down her body, stopping at her stomach. She exhales, grabs my shoulders and tries to push me farther down. I nibble at the soft flesh a few inches to the left of her navel. She tries to suppress a giggle. I push away from her, lean back onto my knees. It's very dark in the room but I know she's frowning.
“Why did you stop?”
I don’t say anything.
“Smith?”
“Sorry, I’ll be right back.” I slither off the bed and walk to the kitchen. I retrieve a steak knife from the silverware drawer.
“Hurry up,” she says, the volume of her voice dampened by the distance between bedroom and kitchen.
“I’m coming,” I say. I return to the bedroom.
“Mmm, there you are. What’s next?” Her voice is liquid, oozing sex.
“Next, I’m going to eat your liver.” I close the door behind me and move towards the bed.
***
I finger through more documents until I find a picture of the second victim. She too is on a metal examination table. Unlike the other girl, this one is clothed and face down. Long auburn hair drawn back into a pony tail, hanging limply to one side of her head. Large patch of blood around a hole in her otherwise white t-shirt. I look at the hole in her shirt and know that her left kidney is missing.
I don’t have to drug this one. She is more than willing. In fact, she can’t get back to my place fast enough. I let her in and she immediately goes to the couch, lays down on her back. She grabs my jacket and pulls me close, trying to get me on top of her.
“Roll over,” I tell her. She bites her lower lip and obeys. I slide over her, my right hand clutching the knife I had in my jacket.
“Wait, shouldn’t I take my clothes off?” She asks. I respond by plunging the knife into her side. She screams but I push her face into the couch cushion. I jerk the knife in and out of the wound and soon enough she stops struggling. When I’m sure she’s dead I withdraw the knife and walk to the kitchen. I chop a potato and cut a carrot into slices, then toss them both into a pan of water on the stove. While the water comes to a boil I debate which seasonings to use.
***
Before I get to the picture of the third victim I already know what I’ll find. Blonde hair. Black dress. Green eyes. I know the eyes won’t be in the picture though. I cut them out and boiled them three days ago.
I finish looking through the documents in the folder and toss it down on my desk. In the top right drawer is a plastic bag with two emerald green eyes in it. I take the bag out of the drawer, open it, place one of the moist spheres in my mouth. With my tongue I roll the eye against the roof of my mouth, then push it against the back of my teeth until it ruptures and squeezes through the gaps. The viscous mass slides easily down my throat.
A legal assistant knocks on my door. I put the bag back in the drawer and close it.
“Come in,” I say. The assistant opens the door and steps inside my sparsely furnished office. She is very attractive, dressed in a dark grey sport coat and short skirt that reveals just enough of her slim legs to be both sexy and classy.
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes?”
“They’re ready for you to talk with Mr. Quistgard.”
“I see. Thank you.”
When she leaves I take the remaining eye out of the drawer, toss my head back and pop the eye into my mouth like a piece of candy. I’m still chewing as I walk out of my office towards the elevator.
***
“The name’s Smith. I’m a lawyer,” I say. Peter looks up at me, his hands bound in metal cuffs.
“Yeah?” he says.
“I’m here to take your statement. Do you have anything to say about all this?” I ask.
“I didn’t do it. I swear. I didn’t do it!”
“I know,” I say. “I believe you.”
I don't think I captured the noir theme very well, and it might be a little short. Perhaps it is a bit too similar to the last story as well, but that's what you get and you will like it, love it.
--EDIT--
This is the current revision of the story. Didn't really change anything, just chopped out bits of sentences here and there, to make the whole thing more noir. Or something to that effect. The conclusion is that the natural voice I tend towards is a little too verbose for noir. That's a shame--I strive to be as concise as possible. Hemmingway FTW!
11.11.2008
Eleven
Regarding today's date:
"Why don't you just make ten louder, and have ten be the highest?"
"These go to eleven."
"Why don't you just make ten louder, and have ten be the highest?"
"These go to eleven."
Hard Boiled
The name’s Smith. I’m a cop. I’m not though. Actually, I’m a lawyer. Not a particularly good one, either. The cop line is just something I say to pick up women. I finish rolling a cigarette and place it between my lips, scanning the dim bar for my next victim. Her eyes catch me through the haze of conversation and cigarette smoke and I know I’ve found what I’m looking for. I weave my way in and out of the mass of people gathered in hazy room until I’m standing next to her. I light my cigarette, take a drag.
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
Another one in the works. This one is for a class genre project, wherein everyone was randomly assigned a genre and character. Mine happened to be lawyer noir. The girl next to me was lucky enough to get zombie western. The poor chap next to her was stuck with animal erotica. Anyway, I've been brewing the basic concept of this story for a few weeks prior to the assignment, and am struggling to fit it within the restraints of the project. Regardless, I'm pretty excited about the plot of this one, which will be revealed through further postings.
“The name’s Smith. I’m a cop,” I say, letting the smoke float out of my mouth.
Another one in the works. This one is for a class genre project, wherein everyone was randomly assigned a genre and character. Mine happened to be lawyer noir. The girl next to me was lucky enough to get zombie western. The poor chap next to her was stuck with animal erotica. Anyway, I've been brewing the basic concept of this story for a few weeks prior to the assignment, and am struggling to fit it within the restraints of the project. Regardless, I'm pretty excited about the plot of this one, which will be revealed through further postings.
11.06.2008
Ricochet
This part is true:
Around five in the afternoon I decide to take a nap. I spread a blue fleece blanket over the speckled, gray couch apolstery and lay down. I don’t feel very tired, but I keep my eyes closed, knowing that eventually the sleepiness will come. It’s some time before it does. I settle into the comfortable feeling of being awake enough to know that I’m about to fall asleep. Then I hear an oscillating, high-pitched whine from outside my window. It doesn’t ever stop, but the volume fluctuates, indicating the source of the sound is moving. I come to the conclusion that a neighbor from across the cul-de-sac must have a remote controlled car. The noise it makes is very irritating, but I keep my eyes closed, holding out for payoff of sleep. Instead I am rewarded with a half-conscious memory of my childhood.
At some point between third and fifth grade I had an RC car. I think it was called Ricochet or something along those lines. The body of the car was very slim and the the tires were very thick, so that you could flip the car on either side and it would still drive. You could toss the car however you wanted and it would always land in a drivable orientation. I remember one hazy summer evening my neighbor and I walked across the street from our houses to our elementary school, both of us driving our Ricochets. He walked up the fire-escape staircase of the main building and tossed his car onto the roof of a connected building. He piloted his Ricochet off the roof. It landed on a sidewalk and he proceeded to drive it into the gravel playground.
A brief excerpt from the novel, currently called Episodes of Sunshine. To be clear, my intention is not to write a novel, but I must for class. What better way to fill up 40,000 words than vaguely fictionalizing everyday from the beginning of the semester to the end? I'm also inserting essays, stories, and poems into the novel, to take up space. Don't look for it at your local bookstore, it won't be there. But I do like this passage, for sentimental reasons.
Around five in the afternoon I decide to take a nap. I spread a blue fleece blanket over the speckled, gray couch apolstery and lay down. I don’t feel very tired, but I keep my eyes closed, knowing that eventually the sleepiness will come. It’s some time before it does. I settle into the comfortable feeling of being awake enough to know that I’m about to fall asleep. Then I hear an oscillating, high-pitched whine from outside my window. It doesn’t ever stop, but the volume fluctuates, indicating the source of the sound is moving. I come to the conclusion that a neighbor from across the cul-de-sac must have a remote controlled car. The noise it makes is very irritating, but I keep my eyes closed, holding out for payoff of sleep. Instead I am rewarded with a half-conscious memory of my childhood.
At some point between third and fifth grade I had an RC car. I think it was called Ricochet or something along those lines. The body of the car was very slim and the the tires were very thick, so that you could flip the car on either side and it would still drive. You could toss the car however you wanted and it would always land in a drivable orientation. I remember one hazy summer evening my neighbor and I walked across the street from our houses to our elementary school, both of us driving our Ricochets. He walked up the fire-escape staircase of the main building and tossed his car onto the roof of a connected building. He piloted his Ricochet off the roof. It landed on a sidewalk and he proceeded to drive it into the gravel playground.
A brief excerpt from the novel, currently called Episodes of Sunshine. To be clear, my intention is not to write a novel, but I must for class. What better way to fill up 40,000 words than vaguely fictionalizing everyday from the beginning of the semester to the end? I'm also inserting essays, stories, and poems into the novel, to take up space. Don't look for it at your local bookstore, it won't be there. But I do like this passage, for sentimental reasons.
The Digital Environment
Back in my bathtub of sound, depressing computer keys beyond the keyboard, through the desk and into some dark realm of space and wet heat, with very nice resistance on the fingers. Can't even feel them (keys) moving, really, just the hard tap (fingers). Keep that in mind, folks.
I think the auditory and physical aspects of typing are very important. I prefer typing on a laptop; I think the keys make a far more pleasing sound than those on a standard keyboard. However, I don't feel like I can really type hard on laptop keys without breaking the whole machine. A typewriter would be preferred, but that would involve a lengthy transferring process from paper landscapes to the digital environment. I'm not against simple pen and paper, provided the pen is a high quality roller ball, heavy in weight, fine tipped (.07 is a touch big, .05 a bit small--someone should make a .06) and with uninterupted, flowing, black ink. But mind is faster than hand and I can never keep up, when involved in serious wording. What to do, what to do.
Also, I'll call myself out on the semicolon above. Dab.
I think the auditory and physical aspects of typing are very important. I prefer typing on a laptop; I think the keys make a far more pleasing sound than those on a standard keyboard. However, I don't feel like I can really type hard on laptop keys without breaking the whole machine. A typewriter would be preferred, but that would involve a lengthy transferring process from paper landscapes to the digital environment. I'm not against simple pen and paper, provided the pen is a high quality roller ball, heavy in weight, fine tipped (.07 is a touch big, .05 a bit small--someone should make a .06) and with uninterupted, flowing, black ink. But mind is faster than hand and I can never keep up, when involved in serious wording. What to do, what to do.
Also, I'll call myself out on the semicolon above. Dab.
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